


The Dragonborn Princess and the Young Wolf

by k6fan98



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Crossover, Cultural Differences, Culture Shock, Dovahkiin becomes High Queen, Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), F/M, Feminist Themes, Magic, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism, Princes & Princesses, Prophecy, Strong Female Characters, Tamriel Exists On Planetos, Warrior Princess, Westeros Exists On Nirn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22289308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/k6fan98/pseuds/k6fan98
Summary: The High Queen of Skyrim dreamt that her house must be joined to the wolves on the other side of the world. Lord Eddard Stark dreamt that his house must be joined to the dragons on the other side of the world. Perhaps it is the will of the gods, or something more sinister.Either way, Princess Freyja arrives in Winterfell and almost immediately commits every faux pas possible. Will she overcome cultural differences and find true love? Or will it all end in disaster? Or will the legions of undead storm over the wall and kill everyone, making the whole thing moot?Pretty typical crossover setup. Almost one hundred percent wish fulfillment fantasy, with somewhat contrived plot.
Relationships: Robb Stark/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 82





	1. Arrival At Winterfell

**Author's Note:**

> So this is inspired by all the fics where Jon ends up in Tamriel except it’s inverted with someone from Tamriel ending up in Winterfell. And it’s more Robb centric than Jon centric because Robb needs more love.
> 
> This is one of those fics where Tamriel and Westeros are on the same world but far away. There’s more that will be explained in later chapters.
> 
> This is set about 20 years after Skyrim. The Dragonborn became High Queen of Skyrim after defeating Alduin. It’s a pretty common setup and there are probably even mods for it. I’ll maybe go into more detail about that later.
> 
> As for the other side, it’s mostly based on the show with a few bits from the books.

** Robb I **

Dragons made people uneasy.

A legacy of the Targaryens and their madness. The visitors had been warned, and flew banners bearing the wolf of Haafingar Hold instead of the diamond-shaped dragon used by the Septims and now the Windcallers, but there were still swords, shields, and other items that still bore the symbol. But he knew what the woman who ruled Skyrim was known by, and knew what the young woman arriving today was known by. The Dragonborn Queen and her Dragonborn Princess.

He reminded himself that their visitor was in fact the _crown princess_. Inheritance worked differently in Skyrim, more like Dorne though with only loose customs instead of hard and fast rules. The eldest came first, even if she was a woman. The Dragonborn Princess had a brother, but she came first.

It was all very strange. He’d never even heard of Skyrim before that year. It was a cold, unknown land on the other side of the world, on the continent of Tamriel, which had not been heard from in a thousand years. And then suddenly his father, the Lord Stark, had received a letter from the High Queen of Skyrim. It had not surprised the man, and he claimed that he’d had a vision from the Old Gods that foretold of its arrival. They had begun corresponding, and the next thing he knew, the heir to the throne of Skyrim was on her way with marriage a very real possibility.

“Is she here yet? Is she really a dragon?” Arya asked, impatient. His fierce, dark-haired little sister was a handful, but he loved her nonetheless.

Sansa quickly shushed her. Jon had a soft spot for Arya, and he liked her too, but she never did get along with her sister. They were polar opposites in almost every way. Arya, like Jon, took after their father with the dark hair and grey eyes of the Starks, while Sansa looked like Robb and their mother, with the red hair and blue eyes of the Tullys. Arya was wild as a direwolf, Sansa was the model of a young lady.

They were lined up, youngest to eldest, in all their finery. Sansa relished her opportunity to show off one of the lovely dresses she had sewn. Arya had fought tooth and nail- almost literally- to not wear a dress, and the fine silk she had reluctantly donned was already splotched with mud.

The boys wore their finest doublets and tunics without complaint or ceremony.

It was strange, really. The North was one of the kingdoms of Westeros, but it was insular, isolated from the other kingdoms and the rest of the world. The last time they had become entwined in the affairs of others, it had been a disaster. Yet now his lord father was inviting a foreign princess to their home with rumours of a marriage alliance in the air. He had asked, deeply concerned, and only received a vague answer alluding to the old gods.

The entourage was small, though perhaps he should have expected that. He knew little about the kingdoms on the other side of the world, had not even believed they were truly _real_ until now, but he’d been told that Skyrim was a cold, harsh land much like the North, and the people there did not stand on ceremony.

There were no elaborate wheelhouses, only a handful of sturdy horse-drawn carts accompanied by knights on stout horses. The knights were dressed oddly, in black or dark grey armor, and carried a variety of weapons. Many of them were also made of the same black material, though many of the others were recognizable steel. Fully half of them were women, or at least appeared to be judging by their shaped armor.

He kept his eyes forward, on the visitors, but he could imagine Arya’s excitement and Sansa’s shock.

One of them dismounted her horse and stepped forward. Her armor was grey and black, and when she approached he could tell it was not enamel or paint. It was full plate, but more tightly fitted than their own styles. It was decorated with silver inlays and a few purple gems- unlike the other knights, he noticed. She carried a sword- slightly curved, judging by the shape of the scabbard- and a knife, but no shield. She was wearing a helmet that obscured her face- even her eyes were hidden behind what looked like smoked glass- but paused to remove it, clipping it neatly to her belt in a practiced motion.

She was less exotic than he expected. Red-brown hair cut short and matted from being in a helmet framed a pale, narrow face. Her eyes were a pale blue, duller than his own Tully blue but not unlike others from the Riverlands.

No, not exotic, nor would she be considered a fine beauty in Westeros, but strangely alluring in her own way.

A royal guard, perhaps? There were no women on the Kingsguard, but if he recalled correctly there were a few queens and princesses of the kingdoms with female sworn swords. Perhaps the Dragonborn Princess did as well.

His lord father, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, stepped forward toward the woman.

“Lord Stark,” the woman greeted. She had an accent, though one he couldn’t place. She bowed, though she did not bend the knee. “Freyja Windcaller.”

They waited patiently for Princess Freyja to reveal herself. The carts had all made it into the castle by now, yet they stood in place, their drivers and escort staying in place. The royal guard- he figured her for a royal guard- stood there, confused.

Finally, his lord father, Eddard Stark, cleared his throat awkwardly. He told the warrior woman, expectantly, “We await the presence of your lady.”

“You misunderstand, Lord Stark. I _am_ Freyja Windcaller.” She smiled and threw her arms wide.

His father immediately bent the knee. That surprised Robb, he hadn’t been expecting that. Quickly, he did the same.

“I apologize, my princess. I did not expect you to head your own party.”

Robb recalled some of the Dragonborn Queen’s other epithets. Warrior Queen. Forge Queen. Apparently her daughter had taken after her.

She shook her head. “No, it’s my fault. I should have been more clear about that.” She turned back to her entourage. “Katariah!”

Another woman in armor approached, carrying a large sack. Her armor appeared lighter, made mostly of gold-grey scales, and she carried a long dagger and a short sword instead of a longsword. Like most of the visitors, though, she kept her face hidden behind a visor.

He briefly wondered if they were hiding something. But Princess Freyja had revealed her face, hadn’t she?

“My housecarl, Katariah Hlaalu,” the princess introduced.

He overheard Arya mutter something about having a warrior for a handmaid.

In a smooth motion, Princess Freyja drew a scabbarded sword from the sack and presented it to her host, laying it flat across her gloved palms. “A gift from the High Queen of Skyrim to the Lord of Winterfell.”

Lord Stark took the offered sword and unsheathed it, just a few inches, to inspect it. Surprised, he said, “This is not steel.”

“We call it ebony. Not the wood but an uncommon metal from Tamriel,” she explained. “I don’t believe it is the equal of your Valyrian weapons, but it’s stronger and sharper than ordinary steel.”

He sheathed the sword and traced the carved pommel. “The direwolf is impressive. I would like to meet the man who carved this someday.”

Freyja replied jokingly, “That may be difficult, Lord Stark. That direwolf was carved by a Bosmer woman.”

Bosmer were… wood elves? High elves? He still found it difficult to believe there were truly elves. It was like the stories of giants and Children from north of the wall. He would need to see one with his own eyes.

His father did not know how to reply. “Ah.”

“I shall send your compliments on,” Princess Freyja told him, trying to smooth things over. She took the sack from Lady Katariah. “If you would kindly introduce me to your family, I bear gifts for each of them as well.”

“Of course.”

Naturally, he was first. He straightened himself as his lord father introduced him to the princes. “Robb, my eldest.”

Her eyes traced over him, lingering on his own for a moment. He felt something flutter through him for a moment before it was gone. And then she reached into the sack and pulled out another blade in a black leather scabbard, this one much shorter.

“Thank you.” He took it and inspected it almost the same way his father did. This was a long dagger, not a sword, something that could be carried as a backup. It, too, was made of the strange black metal. Curious, he asked, “A fine blade. Who forged this?”

“My mother did. In fact, she was involved in crafting every gift in this sack herself,” she answered proudly. “Others did work on the pieces- like the Bosmer woman- but she designed them and did most of the forging herself.”

That genuinely shocked him, despite all he had heard about the land on the other side of the world. “The High Queen of Skyrim works a forge?”

“Not as much as she would like to,” she told him. “My mother was not born a princess. Once, she had to forge her own weapons and armor to protect herself. She prefers building to fighting.”

The Forge Queen. “And you, princess?”

She shook her head and smiled ruefully. “The last time I set foot in a forge I nearly set it aflame, I’m afraid. I inherited many things, but not those skills.”

With that, they moved on. His lord father introduced Sansa next. She did not receive a blade, but rather a gold necklace inset with intense blue gemstones.

The princess told her, “It will ward off sickness and poisons so long as you wear it around your neck.”

“A beautiful sentiment for a beautiful piece,” Sansa replied sweetly. It was forced, though, he could tell. No doubt his sister was still shocked by Princess Freyja’s unladylike appearance. She elegantly curtsied. “I thank you, my princess, and her grace the High Queen for this gift. I shall cherish it.”

He had half expected Arya to make some remark or other, but she was clearly awestruck and said nothing when their father introduced her to the Princess.

“Yes, I’ve spilled blood with it.” So Arya had been staring at her sword. “I do not relish it. No sane person should. But I have had to defend myself and those who could not defend themselves. Fortunately, our journey in your kingdom was peaceful.”

She reached into the sack again and pulled out another blade, this one quite a bit smaller than the one he had been given. “It’s a real blade, not a toy. It’s the right size to wear around your waist now, and perhaps on a boot or with a strap when you’re older.”

Their guest may have missed the horrified look the Lord and Lady Stark shared, but he did not. Neither of them would embarrass their guest by causing a scene, but there would be some very awkward conversations later.

“You must be Bran,” Princess Freyja greeted warmly, moving onward.

“I am, my princess.”

“My mother had almost given you a blade like Arya’s, but a friend convinced her to change her mind,” she said, handing Bran a small metal object. Curiosity overcoming his manners, Robb leaned over to get a better look.

“A belt buckle?” Bran asked, confused.

“So long as you wear it you shall be sure of foot and never slip.” She stated it almost as if it were a fact. “The same Bosmer carved the direwolf.”

His baby brother came last. He couldn’t see what she gave Rickon, and they exchanged few words. Rickon was only three years old.

Then, to his surprise, Princess Freyja looked up and down the line and frowned. “If I may, Lord Stark, I believe you mentioned two others in your correspondence.”

His mother mouthed something that looked suspiciously like _bastard_.

“Cat,” his father warned. He turned to the princess. “Yes, you’re right.”

Even still, he didn’t move toward Jon, instead gesturing his ward to step forward.

He introduced himself with a smirk and an exaggerated bow. “Theon Greyjoy at your service, my princess.”

“I am told you are a skilled archer,” she said, withdrawing a bow from the sack. It was already strung, and appeared to be made of the same black metal instead of wood. “I believe you will make good use of this.”

He took it and tested the pull. “A fine weapon indeed.”

Before he could say anything else, the princess turned and nodded to Lord Stark. With some reluctance, he led her seemingly halfway across the yard to where Jon stood.

“Jon Snow, my-”

“-bastard,” his mother snapped. Ned glared at her.

Robb loved his mother and he loved his brother- always his brother, never “the bastard”. He wished they would just get along, but six-and-ten years later it seemed unlikely.

Princess Freyja frowned and quickly turned back to Jon. She handed him something that looked like a blade, but he couldn’t be sure.

Jon bowed, deeper than the others. “Thank you, my princess.”

Apparently, in Skyrim they didn’t think of bastards like they did in the south. Or, perhaps, they didn’t know, and were in fact trying to be polite. His mother would not be happy, but he was pleased his brother had received a gift and warm greeting.

“I am sure you are weary from your travels,” Lord Stark told her, leading her back toward the keep. “If you would join us inside for a meal…”

“It would be very much appreciated. Thank you, Lord Stark.”

It had been an odd meeting. Both parties had put on their best show of cordiality, but there was an unmistakable tension in the air. It was going to be interesting with their new guests around.

He had no idea _how_ interesting it was truly going to be.

* * *

** Catelyn I **

“This is madness, Ned!” Catelyn hissed at her husband, nearly slamming their bedroom door behind her.

It had been an incredibly trying day. Worse than she had expected. She had been against this whole ordeal from the beginning, but had settled into grudging acceptance over the past few months. If it was the will of the gods as Ned insisted, then there was no arguing. And even if it was not, a marriage alliance with a powerful kingdom was not a bad thing, was it? It was on the other side of the world, but it was supposedly a wealthy land. It could be a good opportunity.

And then Princess Freyja Windcaller arrived. Clad in armor, wearing a sword on her hip, holding her head high as if she wasn’t the least ladylike princess in the world! She was, at best, average looking, and somehow Catelyn doubted she could sing or dance or sew very well at all. Yet here she was, with the audacity to seek a marriage with a Great House! Yes, she’d seen the letters, but she hadn’t believed it until she had seen it. Catelyn hoped her family was as powerful as she claimed, because she wouldn’t attract a match on her own merits.

She reminded herself to try harder with Arya. She couldn’t have her daughter end up like that, wild and unmarraigable. Arya was still a child; Catelyn still had time. She could be a better parent than that awful girl’s awful parents had been.

It was a good reminder. At least there was that.

Arya, whom the High Queen of Skyrim had gifted a _dagger_ of all things. There were many gifts appropriate for a girl of ten and one, and that was not one of them. The worst part was that she couldn’t bar Arya from wearing it, lest it offend their guest. If it were her decision, she would have done it anyway, politeness be damned, but Ned had forbidden it.

Apparently, she did not understand the meaning of a bastard, either. Presenting a gift to Theon, she could forgive. Perhaps they desired an alliance with the Iron Islands- though she doubted they would get it. But to treat a bastard as if he were a legitimate child?

Freyja hadn’t stopped at gifting the bastard a blade nearly identical to the one she’d given Robb. She’d loudly wondered why the bastard wasn’t at the table with his brothers, and made an effort to seek him out at the dinner.

The dinner. Even Ned had admitted that it had been a disaster.

It had started with Freyja’s handmaid. None of them had seen a Dunmer before, and most of the castle had not been told of the other races they might meet at all. Katariah’s appearance had been a shock, with some of the servants screaming when they saw her. One of the guards had nearly drawn his blade.

Catelyn herself was not comfortable around the long-faced, red-eyed woman. She truly did look like some monster, or a woman dying of a bad case of grayscale. And she spent the entire evening glaring at everyone.

She had assumed Freyja would be marrying Robb, something she had gone from firmly opposing to reluctantly accepting to grudgingly opposing again. She had thought before that this girl was from far away, but she might be a good match. Queen Lyra sang her praises, certainly.

And then they had met, and that was the end of that. She didn’t want her son to marry that girl, and struggled to see Ned wanting it, either. Still, they seated her near Robb so they could get to know each other. She quietly hoped the girl would take offense to something or other and leave.

For better or for worse, she only spent part of the dinner talking with Robb. And then she stood up, strode down the length of the hall- still wearing her ridiculous outfit, was that even real armor?- and set her plate down at the low table beside the bastard and the guardsmen.

It was a shockingly inappropriate action. Ned was unhappy about it, she could tell, but even then he did not want to offend the guest that had so brazenly offended them.

One of her retinue had tried to smooth things over with an impromptu performance. She was one of the women guards who fancied herself to be a warrior, but had produced a lute from somewhere and begun singing. She fancied herself a bard, too. Unfortunately, the song she had chosen was not appropriate for a rowdy tavern, let alone a dinner with high lords. It was supposedly very popular in Skyrim, which certainly said something about that land.

Half the hall had enjoyed it- mostly the guardsmen and, of course, Arya. The other half- mostly the ladies- was appalled. There was not a second song, despite her protests that it would be more appropriate.

Freyja returned to the high table on her own. She brushed off the Greyjoy boy’s advances. That was too bad. If they could somehow pass her off to the Iron Islands…

The princess spent most of the rest of the dinner talking with Sansa. Or, rather, _flirting_ with Sansa. They’d allowed Sansa only one cup of wine, and unlike many of the visitors Freyja didn’t seem to indulge in it all that much, yet it was unmistakable. The princess was making passes on her daughter.

He muttered something about them being of an age, and quaffed his wine. Clearly he wasn’t happy with it either, but once again refused to intervene lest it be seen as rude.

It was infuriating. She understood the importance of decorum. But their visitor had shown no respect toward them, and in her opinion, had blown through far too many boundaries already.

Her daughter was no fool, though, and eventually caught on. A horrified look crossed her face, and she quickly and quietly excused herself.

Immediately, Arya took the vacated spot. Freyja was not so twisted to repeat her performance with her younger daughter, but instead regaled her with the tale of a Nord hero, Gormlaith Golden-Hilt. A _woman_ hero, of course.

Catelyn wanted to shout at her to not encourage her daughter down such a self-destructive path.

It had been such a relief when the meal had finished. She scarcely waited for the guests to leave before practically dragging her husband upstairs.

“It has been difficult,” Ned admitted. “I had been hoping for a smoother-”

“Difficult is one word for it!” she snapped. “You saw how she dressed! You saw her leave our table to sit with the bastard. You saw her flirt with our daughter like a lordling to a scullery maid! You saw the weapon she gave our daughter!”

“Please, Cat,” he replied. “They come from the other side of the world. I am told Skyrim is a very different land. It’s only to be expected they would have different ways.”

“Different? Disgusting.”

“And they find some of our ways despicable as well. So it is with the South and the North, and yet here we stand. We have found our peace. Are we so sure about judging them?”

“You are still considering a marriage,” she said quietly. “Please, do not marry Robb to her. He deserves better.”

“Winter is coming,” he repeated. Those words, again. “There was a message from the gods, I am sure of it. I fell asleep in the godswood and when I woke up I _knew_ I had to join our house with the dragons from across the world. The next day, we received the letter from the Dragonborn Queen, from a land none have heard from in a thousand years. You were there, Cat. This is not mere coincidence.”

“Could we not ignore it?”

“Do you wish to cross the gods? Invite their wrath? I always thought you were the pious one.”

It was a sad attempt at humour, but she appreciated it nonetheless. “Does it have to be Robb?”

He nodded sadly. “High Queen Lyra believes it must be my blood, and they must be betrothed soon.”

She snapped, “Marry her to your bastard, then.”

A pained look crossed his eyes, and he squeezed his fist tightly. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, paused, then said quietly, “I cannot.”

 _Why? She didn’t seem to be bothered._ Catelyn bit the retort back. “Does it have to be her, then? Queen Lyra has another daughter, and a son. Why not Sansa to Marco? They are of an age.”

He shook his head. “The Nords do not betroth as young as we do. Even Freyja is considered barely of age for marriage. And if you are unhappy with Freyja for Robb, would you be happy with Marco for Sansa?”

“No.” She’d read many of the letters. Marco was quiet and studious, and unlike his sisters, shied away from fighting. A dutiful son, but hardly the knight Sansa dreamt of. And he truly practiced magic as Queen Lyra claimed, he would be feared and reviled in the Seven Kingdoms.

“It may not happen,” he soothed. “High Queen Lyra was clear that the marriage must be in ‘Mara’s light’. I understand that to mean she will not marry her daughter if she does not wish it. Perhaps Freyja will find our son as unacceptable as you find her. Or Robb may be happy with Freyja. Even if you do not like her, we should respect that.”

“I still think we should abandon this madness,” she said quietly. It was almost convincing, almost. But she just didn’t like the girl. There was something about her- everything about her.

“We cannot. Cat, this is important, more important than I truly understand. But you are right. She should be more respectful of our ways,” Ned admitted. “I shall speak with the Princess in the morning. I shall be polite, but firm.”

* * *

** Freyja I **

Freyja stood in her well-furnished guest chamber as her housecarl helped her out of her armor.

She’d decided not to sleep in her armor, even on the first night. This land had a sacred custom where a guest could not be harmed once they had partaken a host’s food. It seemed to be deeply seated in their culture.. And, as her father always said, trust went both ways. She had to trust her hosts if this was to end with the marriage alliance her mother hoped it would.

And besides, sleeping in armor- even her enchanted-for-comfort, custom-fitted armor- kind of sucked.

“Did I make a mess of things?” she asked, unstrapping one of her bracers. She had two different pairs- one made of hardened moonstone, one made of ebony. She’d worn the grey moonstone ones for most of the trip- they were quite a bit lighter, and strong enough to block simple iron and steel weapons. They wouldn’t hold well against anything stronger, and she wasn’t sure if even her ebony ones would stand up to the revered Valyrian steel.

Katariah took the bracer in her still-gauntleted hand and said diplomatically, “Tamrielic culture has similarities and differences to Westerosi culture. Some things we take for granted are completely unacceptable here. Tonight, the differences were shown more than the similarities.”

“That’s a very polite way of telling me I did.”

“I always endeavor to be as polite as possible,” came the deadpan reply. She felt her cuirass loosen, and shimmied out of it.

“I don’t think most of them know what a housecarl is,” Freyja remarked. She slipped out of the bottom layer of her suit and quickly donned her linen sleeping clothes.

“No. They thought I was a servant, and found my dress and deportment confusing,” the Dunmer remarked. “The ones that weren’t simply terrified by my appearance, that is.”

With her own armor off, Freyja got to work helping her housecarl out of hers. It was a lighter set, made of hardened moonstone, and not as elaborately adorned, but still flexible and protective. “I’m sorry, Katariah. If I knew they were going to-”

“No.” she snapped. “Where you go, I go. I do not fear harsh looks or scathing comments. I may not have chosen to accompany you, but had I been given the choice, I would still have done so.”

“You’re such a sweetheart, did you know that, Katariah?” Freyja replied with a smile. It was touching, really. “Still, I wish people were nicer to you. I can’t imagine going from a land you’re barely accepted in to one you’re outright reviled in.”

“Not so different for me,” her housecarl answered. “I have those who are close to me and those who are not.”

“What do you think of them? The Starks, I mean?”

“Lord Eddard values honor, then pragmatism, then everything else. He understands the importance of the prophecy and will try to makes things work. I do not necessarily approve of all he has done, but he tries to do the best with what he knows and has available. He reminds me of Jarl Balgruuf- as he was during the war, not as he is today” she evaluated fairly. Then she spat, “Catelyn, on the other hand, is a bitch.”

Freyja nearly dropped her confidant’s scaled skirt. “Katariah!”

“Yes, you’re right, that was unfair of me,” she half-retracted. “Catelyn Stark has a shockingly narrow worldview. She cannot accept my appearance. Fine. There are no Dunmer here, none but men at all. She pushes both daughters to be ideal ladies, even the one with the heart of a warrior. In this land, I understand why. I do not agree, but I understand. She judges you as well. That, too, I can understand. You are to be betrothed to her beloved son or beloved lady daughter. Any parent would do the same, right or wrong. But she does not accept the young man who by all rights should be her son in all but blood. That I cannot forgive.”

“You hate her because she hates Jon,” she paraphrased.

“Perhaps it is unfair of me. But you know how I was raised. If I had a different background, perhaps I would not care.”

“No, I don’t like it, either,” Freyja agreed. “I don’t hate her. But I don’t think you’re wrong either.” She added, trying to change the topic to something less awkward, “What about the others?”

“Robb is much like his father, though with the naivete of youth-”

“Hey!”

“Theon clearly thinks with an organ other than his head. He did not look upon me as a monster. Nor as a person. Simply a potential conquest. And his arrogance shall be his undoing.”

“Wow, you are _not_ pulling punches right now.”

Katariah smirked slyly. “I have spent the entire dinner feigning politeness. I only have so much patience.”

“What about Jon? He seemed sad,” she continued. “I went as far as telling him we could be a match, but he nearly took offense to it. Like it was unfathomable.”

“Yes. He has always been seen as lesser and sees himself as lesser,” Katariah postulated. “Or perhaps I am projecting.”

“There was something else about him,” she added. “I can’t really place it. I was attracted to him, but not a romantic attraction. Almost like my dragon blood was. But just a twinge.” She shook her head. “Maybe I’m imagining things.”

The Dunmer tented her fingers. “The Valyrians allegedly tamed dragons, though I am not sure they were true dragons. The Targaryens brought Valyrian blood to Westeros. Jon is not a Targaryen, but nearly all the noble families of Westeros have interbred. Perhaps his mother was related. Or perhaps you _are_ imagining things.”

“I couldn’t get a read on Robb,” Freyja commented, circling back. “He was very polite, a perfect gentleman. But it seemed he was focused mostly on not offending me. I have no idea what he is truly like.”

“There is as much pressure on him as there is on you, perhaps more,” Katariah observed. “Ultimately, your marriage is your decision. A marriage without the blessing of Mara is a farce, or so your people say. Here, marriages for love are rare, and often the betrothed have no choice. He likely believes he _will_ be betrothed to you.”

She pointed out, “But it might not be him. It could be Jon, or Sansa.”

“Perhaps, but in his mind, in his lord father’s mind, in his mother’s mind, it is him that is by far the most likely. A marriage between a princess and a bastard would be seen as offensive, and I cannot find any records of royal marriages between two women.”

“Weird.” After a quiet pause, Freyja said quietly, “I don’t think Sansa likes me very much.”

“You did not make a good first impression on her,” her companion chided gently. “She embodies the Westerosi ideal of a lady; pretty, delicate, and demure. She had expected you to be much the same, and was put off when you were not. She certainly did not expect the… aggressive flirting.”

“Yeah, that was pretty awkward.” She knew she’d stepped over a line. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’ll have to apologize for it later. And then avoid her completely.”

“I would not avoid Sansa completely. First impressions are not everything. Apologize and talk to her- do not try to charm her, just get to know her,” the Dunmer advised. “She is young, but of an age for betrothal here. You are not wrong to court her. Though you must go about it far more gently.”

“You’re right. I’ll try to patch things up tomorrow.”

“I am often right.” Another smirk.

She twiddled her fingers. “Okay, what about the kids?”

“They are small.”

“Arya kept trying to chase me. And she kept asking questions, and ranting about how much she hated something she called lady lessons. Embroidery, singing, dancing, how to be polite and pretty.”

Katariah snorted.

“She doesn’t seem the type, but apparently most girls here don’t have a choice. Men act, women are.” Freyja rolled her eyes. “Maybe I’m overthinking it. She kept asking about my armor and my sword, anyway. And she really liked the tale of Gormlaith and the trolls. Did you-”

“Arya was very curious about me. Bran as well.” She paused. “I may have deliberately avoided them.”

“Really?”

“You know I do not like children.”

An amused look crossed Freyja’s face. “You didn’t mind the twins.”

“I have those who are close to me and those who are not,” Katariah echoed, though with a more humorous tone this time.

“Right.” With a wave of her hand and a little magicka, she extinguished the brazier. “Today, break things. Tomorrow, mend bridges.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The setup is a bit of a cheat (just like my last story really) but I’ll explain it more later. Basically, both High Queen Lyra Windcaller and Lord Eddard Stark received visions they believe to be from their gods, telling them their families must be bound or Bad Things will happen. Is it a message from the good gods or something more sinister? It’s a MacGuffin, that’s what it is!
> 
> Freyja’s outfit isn’t anything directly from the games but it is fancy. It’s a medium set made of mixed materials and of course is enchanted. I promise I’ll describe it next chapter!
> 
> Katariah’s armor is similar to Elven Armor from Skyrim, but grey-gold instead of gold and with a helmet that fully conceals her face.


	2. Ladies, Bastards, and Demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! This chapter turned out a LOT heavier than it was originally going to be. And also WAY longer. But the ideas just flew.

** Eddard I **

Ned found the princess in the godswood, of all places.

Freyja sat on a rock, the same one he had sat on many times, facing the heart tree. Again, she was dressed in her plate armor- he recalled that many wore armor all the time in Skyrim, as impractical as that sounded. She did not appear to be praying, but seemed deep in thought.

He cleared his throat, getting her attention.

She stood and turned to face him, nodding respectfully. “Lord Stark.”

“Princess Freyja. I did not expect to find you here,” he admitted. “As I understood it, you do not worship the Old Gods.”

“I do not. Our pantheon is similar to the Seven, though with a few taken away, a few added, and different names,” she replied. “But just because I do not worship them does not mean they don’t exist. There is an undeniable power to this place.”

“That there is.”

“Lord Stark, I would like to apologize for last night,” Freyja apologized suddenly. “I acted arrogantly, and without respect for your customs. It was unbecoming of a princess of the Windcaller dynasty, and ungracious to House Stark. I can’t promise I won’t offend, but I will try to be more respectful in the future.”

“Thank you, Princess,” he accepted. “You speak truly. You have had a long journey, and come from a different land. But many were offended by your behavior, including my lady wife. If you could show deference to our ways, even _some_ deference to our ways, that would put many at ease.”

“I will,” she answered gravely. She was uncomfortable, and it showed. She may have acted a princess, but she was still young. After a pause, she added, “I would like to apologize especially for how I treated your daughter, Sansa. Nords court differently, and, I must admit, crudely. I did not treat her as the Westerosi lady she is.”

Ned was near speechless. He must have appeared shocked, because a look of confusion crossed Freyja’s face. Finally, he managed, “You were _courting my daughter_?”

She nodded remorsefully. “I know Sansa is young, but I had believed you betrothed your children earlier.”

“You… you would be betrothed to Sansa? My daughter?”

“Is she already spoken for? That wasn’t mentioned in the letters.”

Was she truly suggesting what he thought she was suggesting? “She is a girl.”

She explained, “I have lain with both sexes. I do not have a preference.”

He wasn’t sure what startled him more. That she had admitted to not being a maiden before marriage, or that she had admitted to laying with other women.

“If it is any comfort, Lord Stark, I don’t believe Sansa is the one,” Freyja soothed. It did little to put him at ease. Her previous statements had still not truly settled. “She is a sweet girl, and very beautiful. But, if I may put it this way, I don’t think she likes me. I wish to make peace with her, but I do not think either of us will easily forget our first meeting.”

“It would not be appropriate for you to marry Sansa,” he told her, as politely as possible. “We do not betroth woman to woman in Westeros.”

“Ah.” The girl finally understood. It took her a moment. “If you would prefer me to conceal certain things, I shall do so. But it would be unfair of me to hide it from you.”

He nodded. “It would be best.”

“Very well. I still wish to apologize to Lady Sansa, with your blessing of course.”

“Of course. I would appreciate that.” He looked out over the pool, toward the weirwood standing a silent watch over both of them. “You will be betrothed to Robb, then.”

“It could be your other son, Jon,” Freyja suggested, speaking quickly. “I don’t care that he’s a bastard. My mother does not, either. She would not object to a betrothal.”

Were it so easy. “Your mother believed you were to be married to my son or daughter. Is that correct?”

“That’s right. It has to be one of yours, or very bad things will happen. Or so we understand it.”

“Then it cannot be Jon.”

“Is he not yours?”

He didn’t answer, but the silence seemed to speak for him.

“Is he all that is left of Brandon?” the princess prodded. “Is he _Benjen_ ’s?”

 _Promise me, Ned_. It was still painful, even all these years later. He turned away, closing his eyes. “I cannot say. Believe what you will, it cannot be Jon.”

“I understand, Lord Stark. I will not raise the matter again,” the girl replied coolly.

“Thank you.”

She changed the topic, something he was thankful for. “Robb seemed distant last night. If you have any advice for me…”

“My son understands the importance of this potential betrothal. It weighs on him more than it seems to weigh on you. I will admit this is partially my fault. I told him that this was crucial, but I told him little of why,” he explained. “You will need to make him comfortable around you. It may take time, time I hope we have but time I fear we do not.”

“Got it. Thank you, Lord Stark.”

“I do have another request.”

“Okay.”

“Apologize to Lady Catelyn,” he told her. It was almost an order- he reminded himself that he was speaking to a girl, but a girl who was a princess. “Some of your actions were offensive to Northerners. But she is of the South, not of the North, and some of the things you did were abhorrent in her eyes. She is very much against you marrying Robb now. The decision is ultimately mine, but I would have her blessing.”

She nodded, almost a bow. “Of course, Lord Stark.”

** Sansa I **

“Lady Sansa?”

Sansa groaned inwardly when she heard the voice, though she was careful not to show it. She had been enjoying her morning embroidery; Jeyne Poole was there, and she was always good for talk, and Septa Mordane had come through and complimented her stitching again. Even Arya was mostly silent. She still looked like she had sucked on a lemon, but kept quiet.

Then Freyja showed up, still wearing her ridiculous armor. It was unnatural for a lady to dress like that. Septa Mordane had said so, her lady mother had said so. Why did she not have knights and perhaps a prince to protect her? Then she could wear a nice dress and wouldn’t have to waste her time trying to do a man’s things.

As much as she misliked the woman, she was still Princess of Skyrim. So Sansa stood, curtsied properly and greeted respectfully, “My princess.”

“May we speak privately?” She gestured with a gauntleted hand.

“Of course.” With that, the other ladies and Arya quickly vacated the chamber.

That seemed to surprise her. “Huh.”

“How may I serve you, my princess?” She hoped the princess wouldn’t notice that her polite tone was forced- actually, maybe she did. The wretched princess didn’t deserve respect.

“I came to apologize for how I acted last night,” Freyja said, speaking quickly with eyes slightly downcast. “I should not have tried to court you, and certainly not so brazenly. I disrespected this land, its laws and customs, and I disrespected you. For that I am truly sorry.”

Sansa did not know how to respond to that. She could slap Freyja across the face- it would be beyond inappropriate, and it would reflect badly on her and her House, but it would feel oh so good. She could refuse to accept the apology, which would be disrespectful, but more of a deliberate, calculated disrespect. She could accept it, while making it clear she did not, which was almost the same. Or she could attempt to sound sincere when she accepted the apology. Polite, but perhaps not what Freyja deserved.

“I am not asking you to forgive me, not immediately,” the princess continued before she could reply. “But we will see much of each other in the coming months, and I may be betrothed to your brother. I do not want a civil war in a castle.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Sansa snapped. It was the wrong thing to say, but it just slipped out.

“Cultural differences and alcohol,” she admitted sheepishly. “I had believed that you were a candidate for marriage as well, and I had been emboldened by the stress of travel and too much wine- no. That is an excuse. I should have kept control of myself.”

Anger and disgust were flowing through her veins now. “No, what’s wrong with you all the time? You’re supposed to be a princess, yet you pretend to be a man!”

Freyja blinked, face screwed up in confusion. “What.”

“You try to court ladies with tales of bravery and adventure.” You stand there and argue with men and you don’t care to be courteous and you defied the Lord of Winterfell my father in front of everyone.” She was ranting, she realized. She didn’t care. “You eat like a savage and you like those horrible songs and you wear a sword and you wear a man’s armor-”

“It’s not a man’s armor. It’s _my_ armor,” the so-called princess retorted indignantly. “It was custom-made for me, designed for me. You insult my favorite outfit!”

“But you’re a princess. You’re supposed to be a lady. Why don’t you act like a lady?” She was practically screaming at this point. She didn’t care about that either.

The princess sighed, and a look of something Sansa didn’t recognize crossed her face. She sat down beside Sansa, the plates of her armor clinking gently against the wood.

Sansa instinctively shifted away.

“What do you consider a lady, Sansa?” Freyja asked, locking her with pale blue eyes. Not Tully blue, mayhaps Barrowlands blue. “What should a girl like you or me aspire to? What should we be?”

How would a princess not know these things already? Sansa understood it all, but stumbled putting it into words. “A lady is always courteous. Courtesy is a lady’s armor. A lady is demure and delicate. A lady never runs, for she is never in a hurry. A lady honors and supports her husband, and shall bear and raise him many sons. And she shall always be beautiful and elegant.”

The princess nodded, then probed gently, “What about your sister, Arya? She’s not any of those things.”

Sansa spat, “She’s not a lady. She’ll never be a lady. She’s awful.”

“Then what is she?” Was that sadness in her voice?

She repeated, “Awful.”

“Where I come from, we do not think so rigidly,” Freyja explained with a thin smile. “Some of our ladies are like you. Elegant, pretty, polite, talented with song and dance. Some are like me. Rugged, strong, brave, skilled with a blade or a bow. Some are not like either of us. None are more or less ladies.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Elsa of Windhelm is thin and delicate, with a beautiful singing voice and ever polite. Linna of Markarth charges into fights with a greatsword as big as you are. Ingun of Riften is… a poor example. Let us not talk of Ingun Black-Briar.” She laughed at that, which jarred Sansa. “Come visit Skyrim some day. Meet them. See for yourself.”

“But why? Why would a girl try to fight with a sword instead of learning her singing and her dancing and her embroidery and her manners?” None of it made any sense to her. “Why can’t Linna be like Elsa? Elsa sounds nice.”

“Linna can’t be like Elsa because Linna isn’t Elsa,” Freyja explained patiently. Perhaps it was a feigned patience. “Linna doesn’t enjoy singing, she enjoys fighting. Elsa is proud of her fine looks, but Linna finds beauty in strength.”

“But how will Linna find a husband? What man would take a brute like her as his wife?”

“Well, Linna does not desire such things,” the princess said. “But you would be surprised. You assume all men want the same thing, a dutiful and demure wife that will bear them many children, yes? Skyrim has rather different ideals. But in any land, desire is not so simple, not by half. It is a matter of finding the right one for you, not trying to make yourself the right one for someone else.”

“But you’re a princess,” Sansa repeated. It sounded weak when she said it.

“I _chose_ this, Sansa,” the princess replied intensely. “Some are forced to defend themselves or die, sadly, but I had the choice. I chose to take up a sword, to learn it, and yes, to use it if I had to. Of the eighteen or eighteen thousand paths before me, this is what I chose.”

“Why?”

Another thin smile. It seemed genuine, but strange. “I have the same fire in my heart my mother has. I would never be happy standing back while others fight and die to protect me. I would never be happy standing aside and letting someone else decide my fate. I feel comfortable in armor, and I feel right with a sword in my hand.” She laughed, just briefly. “I had thought you would find that noble.”

It would, in the right man. “Noble, but for a prince, not a princess.”

“You say that as if it makes all the difference in the world.” Freyja sighed. “I hope you will find happiness, I truly do. I hope you will find the honorable prince and the beautiful castle you dream about. I hope you will live shielded from harm and raise many children and yes, even have bountiful silks to sew into unparalleled garments. I just want you to understand that not every girl desires the same life you do.”

All of those things were things she desired, but they were oddly specific- all things she had mentioned at dinner. “You _were_ listening.”

“I was barbarous last night, not unobservant,” she answered tersely. “My apologies. I am angry at myself, not you.”

They sat in silence. In truth, Sansa was still angry, and still confused. Freyja wasn’t anything like the princess she was supposed to be. And the discourtesy at the dinner still stung. But there was a sense to her words. She _liked_ lady things. She dreamed of all the things a highborn lady should dream of. But if she didn’t, it would be frustrating, wouldn’t it?

Finally, she asked, “Is that why you gave Arya a knife instead of a necklace?”

“It was a gift from my mother, from the High Queen of Skyrim to the daughter of the Lord of Winterfell,” Freyja correctly. “In truth, she had made certain assumptions at the time. She had assumed Arya was already training as a warrior. She later learned otherwise, but decided to gift it to her anyway.”

Sansa had a dozen half-formed responses. She practically spat, “She’s never going to let go of that thing.”

“Good. It will give her confidence that she is not a mistake. Your sister aspires to a different life. Perhaps not a better one, but it shall be hers.” Freyja paused. “You are right about one thing. She will never be the kind of lady you will be. She will never be happy with the things you desire so much. That is something that we should celebrate, not mourn.”

“That she isn’t a lady like she could be?”

“A man once told me, _variety is the spice of life_.” She laughed. “Of course, he _was_ a purveyor of exotic spices. So perhaps it was more advertisement than wisdom.”

“I suppose that makes sense.”

“I did not mean to have such a long and profound conversation,” Freyja apologized. “Just know that I am sorry for last night. And do try to be nicer to your sister.”

“I shall.” It did not sound very convincing, even to her ears. “If I may have your leave, my princess…”

“Of course. I have much to do today as well.”

** Jon I **

The demon woman was watching him.

Jon Snow supposed that wasn’t fair to her. She had a face too long and sharp to pass for human, bright red eyes, and ash-grey skin. That put everyone ill at ease- he’d heard all the whispers. But her perpetual frown was unwelcoming yet familiar, and she spoke like a highborn lady, her accent somehow closer to Westerosi than Freyja and the other Nords. Her outfit- a kind of scaled armor- was strange, but she almost looked attractive in it.

He tried to ignore her, tried to focus his attention on his opponent. He dodged the guardsman’s first attack, feinted, had an opening and missed when he tried to exploit it. As he tried awkwardly to recover, his opponent got in a good hit that left him winded and in a real fight would have left him dead.

“You’re distracted,” she called. She had a name. _Katariah_. Too much like Catelyn. Maybe that made him uncomfortable, too.

Jon handed his sword off and walked over to where she stood, leaning against the guest house. He kept his head low, reminding himself that she likely ranked above him. “May I be of service, milady?”

“You can start by not calling me _milady_ ,” she said with a snort. “Katariah is quite fine. I am not one of your fancy highborn ladies.”

“Very well, mi- Katariah.”

“If you could grant me a tour of the grounds, that would be much appreciated. I have not had the pleasure yet,” she requested, motioning with a gauntleted hand.

That surprised him. He was the Bastard of Winterfell, and whatever she claimed, he was sure the woman could receive the same honor from someone else. “I am sure one of the legitimate children, or my lord father-”

“Oh, would you stop that?” she snapped. “Your people think I’m a handmaid, it wouldn’t be _appropriate_. Sure, they wouldn’t deny me, but they wouldn’t be happy about it. Besides, I asked _you_.”

“You’re not a handmaid?” he asked, curiosity overcoming sense.

“No. Closer to a sworn sword. A housecarl is a bodyguard first,” the Dunmer replied. “I also perform some of the duties you would delegate to a handmaid, and those of a squire.”

Jon slowly headed toward the stables, hoping silently she wouldn’t follow. But she took it as implicit acceptance and did anyway. He glanced back and mentioned, “It’s odd thinking of a princess as needing a squire.” Quickly, he added, “I don’t have a problem with it. Just find it strange, that’s all.”

“At first I found it strange how you draw lines as you do. Men are warriors. Women are not,” she mused. What was she getting at? “Yet the more I thought about it the more I understood. There are those that will always seek divisions, and sadly they are often the ones in power. You do not draw more lines, just different ones.”

It took him a moment to figure out what her cryptic words meant. “You sound like you’ve experienced it,” he observed.

“My people, the Dunmer, are not well liked in Tamriel,” she explained, a tinge of sadness in her voice. “We were mistrusted before the Red Year. When we lost our homeland, we became leechers and vagrants. High Queen Lyra is fair to the Dunmer. But she is only one ruler. And my own family… do you know my name, Jon Snow?”

That seemed an odd question. He stopped by the stables and said, confused, “Katariah?”

She glared at him, though there seemed to be mirth in her crimson eyes. “My _family_ name.”

“I’m afraid not,” he answered quietly. He gestured to the building behind them. “These are the stables. We keep the horses in here. Your horses, too.”

It was a terrible explanation and he knew it.

“No shit, Jon Snow.” He hoped that was a quip, and that she was not genuinely insulted. She moved on quickly. “Katariah _Hlaalu_. Once, we were the dominant Great House of Morrowind. We lost all of our holdings in the Red Year, and were disgraced as well.”

He felt himself tilt his head downward, as if by instinct. “So you _are_ highborn.”

“You Westerosi and your obsession with status. There is something to be said for the Nord attitude.” She shook her head. “My grandmother was born into nobility. I was born a refugee, with not a title or style in sight.”

Grandmother? He may have been a bastard, but he wasn’t stupid. The dates didn’t line up. “I thought the Red Year was centuries ago.”

“It was. Dunmer have long lives.” She motioned for them to continue. “The stables where you keep the horses. I suppose our next stop will be the library, where you keep the books.”

“If it please you, it shall be the smithy, where the smithing is done,” he suggested, risking a tiny joke of his own. It was strange- somehow Katariah was making him feel something vaguely resembling comfort in her presence. “Perhaps Mikken will be there.”

“Lead on, then.”

Mikken was indeed in the smithy, along with a stout woman with dirty-blond hair. Her mannish form of dress, along with the diamond-dragon sigils on her sleeves, identified her as one of Princess Freyja’s retinue. She was talking animatedly with Mikken, something about metal that he could make out but couldn’t understand. As he watched, she gestured animatedly with a rod of silver metal in her gloved hand.

“Maja is really into it,” Katariah remarked. “It’s probably best if we not bother them.”

“Yes, you’re right.”

They continued to circle the courtyard, boots crunching against the ground. They passed in front of the Great Hall, which he assumed she was already familiar with.

“You’re on the verge of adulthood, are you not?” Katariah asked suddenly. “Do you have any plans? Have they been made for you? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

There was only one path, and she wouldn’t be the first one he had told. “Do you know of the Night’s Watch?”

“The order of warriors that defends the Wall from the monsters beyond. Monsters that may or may not exist. All men, and sworn to chastity, at least on paper. And, as I understand it, mostly criminals these days.” She sighed.

“Perhaps. But my uncle, Benjen, is First Ranger,” he told her, pride in his voice. “There’s honor in it, and when you take the black, bastardy doesn’t matter anymore.”

“As I understand it, brothers of the black are sworn for life.” Red eyes pierced his. Despite their conversation, it was unnerving. “You would give up everything.”

He spoke quickly. “I have nothing here. Lady Stark hates me. My father can only do so much; he must put his legitimate children first. I’ll miss my brothers and sisters, true. But I’ll never be legitimized. I’ll never hold lands or titles of my own.”

“You should speak to Freyja. More than the two words you managed last night,” the woman suggested. “I do not know if you are her match. Only the gods know. But it is possible.”

“It’s not my place,” he replied quietly. There was bitterness and anger he fought to control. After all the letters, after the dinner, they still didn’t seem to understand. “I am a bastard, and she is a Princess. She is a fair lady from what I have seen, deserving of better.”

“For _fuck’s_ sake, Jon Snow.” There was real irritation in her voice, and in her eyes. As peculiar as the rest of her. “What is good about you?”

“Huh?”

“Skills, qualities, anything. What makes you _you_. And not the bad things.”

“I am skilled with a sword.” He managed a tiny smile. “Better than my brother, despite what he will tell you.”

“Focus on that. The good things that make you unique. Not on the circumstances of your birth.”

“I shall.” He probably wouldn’t.

“If it falls through, I could get you on a ship to Skyrim,” she turned to him and smirked mischievously. “We could do it quietly. Nobody would know you where you had gone until it is too late.”

“That’s very kind of you to offer,” he replied earnestly. “If you excuse me asking, I still don’t understand why. Why the questions? Why the kindness? Why the attempt at whatever it is you’re doing?”

“Because, Jon Snow, I was born under circumstances like your own. My birth mother died when I was very young.” Katariah stared off into the distance as he explained. “My father returned with me to the wife he had been separated from for decades.”

That took him completely by surprise. Nobody had mentioned anything about her birth. Nobody had asked, either- it would have been rude. But she just seemed self-assured, like someone without that stain on their conscience. Quietly, he asked, “Did she ever forgive her?”

“It took her a very long time,” she answered sadly, but then smiled. “It took her a very long time to forgive him, but not long to love me. My mother never treated me any less than her blood daughter, my half-sister. She was not perfect, but I was never made to pay for my father’s sins.”

He remained silent. What could he say? He wished he had her childhood, but all was said and done.

“If I am quite honest, Jon Snow, when I see Lady Stark treat you the way she does, my blood boils,” she continued angrily. She exhaled between her teeth. “I will keep quiet, but I am not impressed. Neither is Freyja.”

He nodded jerkily.

“So talk to her, Jon Snow. Perhaps you will be King Consort some day. Or perhaps you’ll at least get pity sex.”

He felt his cheeks flush. Did she just say-

Katariah smirked again, then pointed to a pair of figures stepping onto the training field. “But for now, suffice yourself with watching her destroy your brother in battle.”

** Robb II **

Robb Stark didn’t know what to expect when the princess paged him, asking to meet in the yard.

The wording suggested she wished to spar with him, which sounded rather off. He reminded himself that Skyrim was not Westeros, and that she dressed and acted the part of a warrior. It wasn’t unknown on his side of the world, either. Aegon had had his sister-wives, Prince Oberyn’s daughters were supposedly fierce, and if his sister had her way, she’d follow in their footsteps. He’d even gone a round with Lady Dacey of House Mormont once. Yet it still seemed peculiar that a crown princess would wish to spar. He wasn’t entirely convinced that was what was really going to happen, but he dressed for the occasion anyway.

By the time he made it out into the yard, Princess Freyja was already there, sitting on an overturned stump with a tourney sword in one hand and her helmet in the other.

He had to admit, reluctantly, that it was a good look on her. He’d seen many ladies in fine dresses, some who wore them well and some who did not. Freyja wore her armor well. Sansa had told him- repeatedly- that appearing confident and comfortable was key to beauty. The Princess seemed to have that, even if she had eschewed a dress for plate at the moment.

He briefly wondered if that was why Arya never received the compliments Sansa had received at her age.

Freyja’s armor itself was not elaborate, but it was decorated and shaped to remind that yes, there was a woman underneath. It was clear whoever had designed it had done so with style in mind, which struck him as odd. Battle armor as ladies’ fashions?

A different land indeed.

A smirk crossed the girl’s face, and he blushed as he realized he’d been staring. “Do you like what you see, Lord Robb?”

He dipped his head respectfully. “My princess.”

“A proposition for you,” Princess Freyja suggested. “If you refrain from addressing me as princess, then I shall refrain from addressing you as lord. If we are to be betrothed, it will not do to stay mired in titles.”

“Yes, you’re right,” he agreed. That was fair enough, but the words still felt wrong on his tongue when he added, “Freyja.”

With that, Robb began strapping on the bulky, padded practice armor. It was ugly and ungainly, and to be truthful made him feel underdressed next to the princess with her elaborate plate, but it was practical and effective.

“I suppose you won’t be needing this,” he mentioned offhand. “Seeing that you’ve already dressed for battle.”

“I’ve been wearing this all day, actually,” Freyja admitted. “Skyrim can be very dangerous, and it’s not uncommon to wear protection at all times. I have worn this set for almost the entire trip.”

“That sounds uncomfortable. Isn’t plate heavy?” he asked. Briefly, he wondered what she looked like underneath. If she wore plate all the time, she wouldn’t be thin and delicate like most of the ladies he’d met. She’d probably be lithe and muscular-

He quickly banished the thoughts, cheeks heating.

“True heavy armor, yes. Though some choose to bear it anyway. My mother only gave up her Daedric set after she had been crowned for a year,” Freyja explained. “This is a medium set, made to be light enough to travel while still offering good protection. Some parts are made of ebony, which is heavier than steel. But most of it is made of hardened moonstone, which is much lighter, and a few other materials. There’s also some magic in it which helps with the comfort and durability, though it doesn’t do anything about the weight.”

“Magic?” he asked, curious. He’d heard stories that had filtered down, and read some of the letters, but it seemed to vary between people believing magic still existed in Skyrim and people casually throwing fireballs around.

She nodded. “I realize it is strange to you, perhaps even scary. But it’s commonplace in Skyrim, and used for many things. This set was made for this trip, so it doesn’t have anything dramatic, but I once met a man with steel plate enchanted to glow.” She made the last part sound like a joke, or an amusing anecdote at the least.

“Glowing armor?” he asked, skeptically, but with a smile. He reached behind himself to finish strapping the padding around his chest.

“It’s not a difficult enchantment, just a questionable one,” she answered. “Do you want me to get that?”

He nodded, and felt her fingers deftly pull the strap tight. “Thank you.”

Freyja stepped back, took him in, and laughed. “I am sorry. Forgive me.”

“What’s funny?” He knew he appeared stockier than usual, but it wasn’t all _that_ bad, and

“It’s the first time I have seen anyone wear that, that is all,” she excused. “Padded training armor is not something that exists in my homeland- or possibly anywhere in Tamriel.”

As he selected a tourney sword- he very much would have preferred wooden swords against the Princess, but she had already chosen blunted steel- he asked, “Then what do men wear when they spar?”

“The smart ones wear their battle armor. The stupid ones do not.” Then she added, amused, “The women do much the same, if you were curious.”

It took him a moment to realize his mistake. And their conversation had been going well up until that point. A shame. He bowed his head reflexively. “Of course. My apologies.”

“Relax, Robb. You have no need to be nervous,” Freyja chided. “Despite all the doom-and-gloom you may have heard, betrothal is a possibility, nothing more. And Nords may be quick to anger but difficult to truly offend.”

He tried, but he was unable to truly relax as they took to the training field. Freyja slipped her helmet on, adjusted it, then tossed her sword from her left hand to her right. He reminded himself that Freyja knew what she was doing, that she’d no doubt fought before, perhaps more than he had, but he still worried about accidentally hurting her. If he did, it would be a catastrophe for him and his house.

They circled briefly before Freyja rushed forward, swinging wildly. His first thought was that it was poor form, but then he realized she was testing him, and that she could move faster than he expected. He dodged the swing easily and countered it with one of his own, which she parried easily.

Her next swings were more precise, but he was practiced, and deftly avoided the strikes. Seeing an opening, he delivered a powerful two-handed slice- or tried to, but she put her forearm in the way and he pulled back at the last minute, still striking her bracer but without his full strength. The motion left him off-balance and Freyja confused.

“Are you hurt?” Robb asked, concerned.

“I’m fine.” There was a fire to her voice. “In fact, I’m just getting started.”

With little warning, she unleashed a flurry of thrusts and slashes, much more intense than before. This was what she was capable of. He felt at least matched, maybe even outmatched. He parried and dodged the strikes, trying to get in a few of his own but finding each of them blocked by Freyja’s sword or one of her bracers.

Should that have counted as cutting her hands off? Would it be inappropriate to object? Before he could decide, he realized there was now the tip of a tourney sword a few inches from his neck. He’d become distracted and it had costed him.

“I think you’re dead,” Freyja told him, pulling the sword back.

“You block with your forearms,” Robb observed. It wasn’t something he’d seen before, and it didn’t seem fair, but he didn’t say that directly. “Forgive me, but that seems it would be ill-advised against a real blade.”

She tilted her head- perhaps smiling behind her helmet, perhaps glaring at him- and held out her arms for him to see. He traced up her arms. Her gloves were of an unusual design, he noticed- made mostly of a blue-grey woven material with leather only on the palms and part way up the fingers. They were tucked under her bracers, which were different than the ones she’d been wearing before. They were a sateen black- ebony, like the blade he’d been gifted- with silver inlays. And, when he looked closer, he realized that there were scratches in the surface.

He realized that she used this technique in real combat, or something close to it. It clearly worked well enough if she was still standing here. That made him feel at a bit of a disadvantage- he had yet to see a real battle, and there were no formal tourneys in the North.

She pulled her hands back to her sides. “You see, then?”

“Still, you have a hand free,” he pressed. “It seems a shame not to use it. Why don’t you use a shield? Or a hand-and-a-half sword? Or even a second blade, if that suits your fancy?”

“A lady must have her secrets,” Freyja replied mirthfully. She twirled the tourney sword again. “Again, Robb? Without holding back this time?”

Embarrassed, he readied his own. “Very well, Freyja.”

This time, he had a better idea of what to expect, and more importantly, he knew he had to take his opponent seriously. He forced himself to stay focused on the battle. He was fighting a princess whose betrothal was critical to his house, who if he hurt or offended would spell disaster, who was surprisingly attractive in her armor, but none of that mattered. The fight mattered.

Freyja attacked first, and he spun away from the blow, almost managing to get a hit against her and end the fight immediately if she hadn’t also moved out of the way. He was far more aggressive this time, managing to push Freyja back several paces with a flurry of attacks.

He knew Freyja would block with her bracers, and he knew she would rarely use both hands on her sword, and he took that into account. He had the strength advantage, especially if he initiated the attacks and used both hands, and used that to keep his opponent back and try to tire her out.

She still almost managed to get him. He’d been pushing her back, putting her on the defensive, deflecting her probing blows, but it had left him vulnerable. Freyja rolled to the side suddenly, taking him by surprise and almost taking out his legs with a horizontal swipe that he stepped away from and avoided by mere inches.

The tables had turned, and he was now the one being forced back. Her blows weren’t as strong when they landed, but they came rapidly, and he could scarcely fend them all off. Once again her left arm was not doing much of anything save for blocking the occasional blow.

With a mighty heave, he blocked her strike and slammed forward, the impact jarring his arms. She stumbled backward, he feinted to the left, and she moved to block it. Instead, he thrust forward, and his sword hit her breastplate with a loud thunk.

Immediately, the rush of battle began to fade, and in growing horror he realized what he had done. He had struck the princess! It was within the rules as they understood them, and it was only a tourney sword, but he had still struck her, and with considerable force. He prayed she was not hurt.

Fortunately, that did not seem to be the case. Freyja stepped back, lowering her sword, moving fluidly with no signs of pain. “Very good, Robb. I had not expected that. Shall we make it two out of three?”

He let out a breath of relief and readied his sword once more. “I think we shall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel almost bad setting Jon up only to let him down later. But it’s Robb/Freyja for sure. Although a slow burn Jon/Katariah might happen too ;)
> 
> Anyone who’s played Skyrim is probably already well aware of what Freyja uses her offhand for. If you haven’t, which rock have you lived under for the past decade?
> 
> I really wanted to get a fight scene in here because Freyja is not a Faux Action Girl. She and Robb will absolutely be a Battle Couple once the action starts.
> 
> I think I said this chapter was going to get into the plot but it kinda just got out of hand and the next thing I knew I had 6000 words! Next chapter we’ll get into the plot, I promise!


	3. Apologies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coronavirus has me FREAKING OUT! It took me over a month to write this chapter, half-written just sitting there on my computer before I finally finished it! Hopefully things will be better from here on out.
> 
> I promised I’d describe Freyja’s outfit so here it is! Probably too long but whatever. And the plot finally begins too!

** Freyja II **

Freyja began her day like she began many others. She was in a strange land, in a strange room in a strange castle, but the routine was much the same as at home in the Blue Palace. Get out of bed, shiver a bit in the cold air- she hadn’t inherited her mother’s tolerance of cold- relieve herself in a chamber pot, scrub her face and get dressed with Katariah’s help.

She briefly searched through her outfits. Several sets of fine clothes in different colors, mostly long coats with trousers, which she would typically pair with boots, gloves, and often a hat. A simple dress and a fancier one she didn’t recognize, probably gifts from their hosts. A set of Nordic leather and steel armor too heavy for travel but good enough in a fight. Like many other days, she settled on her favourite outfit, a grey and black set of medium armor with silver and amethyst accents. It was a gift from her mother before this trip, armor made of the best materials that was as light as an Elven set but as protective as plate armor.

Supposedly. So far, it had lived up to her claims. She’d taken a few hits on the way to Winterfell and walked away unscathed every time.

Freyja started with the undersuit. It was a comfortable garment of silk reinforced with netch leather and blue-black woven malachite- an experiment, but a successful one so far. It protected her from chafing and protected her where the plates of her armor didn’t cover, like the insides of her elbows, knees, armpits and her neck. That was only the half of it, though. Magic was woven throughout, rendering it waterproof and resistant to heat, shock, and cold. It was comfortable, and kept her dry in the rain, warm in the cold and cool in the heat. It had taken her mother some time to perfect those enchantments, but they’d turned wearing armor all day long from a necessary burden to a decent choice of outfit.

After that, she pulled on her gauntlets, smoothing the material over her fingers and pulling them tight on her forearms before cinching up the straps on the wrist and forearm. She had a more traditional set made of black leather, but she preferred these ones. They were made of layers of fabric, a soft silk lining, waterproof rubber, another silk layer and one of silk and woven malachite. An outer layer of leather came up only to her knuckles, mostly to improve grip. They were enchanted, too, mostly for heat and cold protection and to keep water from leaking in where they overlapped her undersuit.

Her mother had tested the design by wearing them in the kitchen for a week, and had gone the whole week without burning or cutting herself. That didn’t sound impressive until you watched High Queen Lyra try to cook. She was an incredible woman of many talents, but that was not among them.

The boots were the first armored part, and they came next. Made mostly of leather and ebony with some fine silver trim and one amethyst each, they were heavy. They came up almost to her knees, and were completely covered in plate armor, jointed and lobstered for flexibility. Like her gloves, they were waterproof and enchanted for protection. In this case they would also soften the impact of a hard fall.

She would have preferred lighter boots, but her mother had had bad experiences with floor traps that she didn’t want her eldest daughter to repeat. They weren’t too bad, really, once she got used to them.

Katariah helped her into her cuirass. She could don it alone, but it was much more difficult, requiring a few acts of contortion to tighten the straps, so she rarely did unless she had no choice. The cuirass was of a composite construction, with a solid ebony breastplate trimmed with silver and an amethyst gemstone in the center, as well as ebony plating in the crotch area. The rest of it was made of thicker, but much lighter, plates of hardened moonstone. She didn’t understand that process herself, but it made the material a slightly golden grey and as strong as steel.

Her pauldrons were small, just big enough to cover her shoulders and not oversized for show, though they were trimmed with silver. They, too, were made of ebony, along with her elbow and knee pads. Her greaves, though, were made of hardened moonstone to save weight, as were the plates protecting her upper arms.

Today, she chose her hardened moonstone bracers. She wasn’t expecting a fight today, not truly, and if it was, it would likely be with bandits and their poor iron and rusty steel, not knights with Valyrian steel. They went on below her elbow pads, over her gloves, and tightened on with metal latches.

She considered her plateskirt for a moment. Made of the same grey hardened moonstone, fashioned into curved scales, it was strong but lightweight. It was fitted loose and came down halfway to her knees, providing extra protection for her upper legs. It was _extra_ protection- her armor was designed so that it could be worn with or without the skirt without leaving her too vulnerable. In the end she decided to wear it- it was cute, she thought, and more like the dresses all the girls here wore. She stepped into the skirt, pulled its leather belt through its silver-trimmed ebony clasp, and cinched it tight.

In Skyrim, she would typically wear her helmet, often even with the visor shut. It was a work of art, ebony trimmed with silver with a silk lining and clear material filling the eyeslits, enchanted so she could breathe easy even underwater or in choking fumes. Instead, she hooked it on her belt, along with a few pouches of sundries, a waterskin, and her Daedric longsword. Her backup, a dragonbone dagger, went into a scabbard strapped to her right boot.

“You look ready for an adventure,” Katariah noted as she adjusted one of the straps. “Are we slaying any monsters today?”

“Only Lady Stark’s wrath,” she answered.

“I fear you have chosen the wrong outfit, then. Hmm… all your good clothes would be considered awfully mannish here. The blue wool dress would be more to her liking.”

“Maybe,” Freyja agreed reluctantly. “I want to apologize for some of the worse things I’ve done. I want to make her understand. I don’t want to pretend I’m somebody I’m not.”

“Good.” Katariah said. She snorted. “Because I’m not helping you take that off when you just put it on.”

* * *

“Lady Stark,” she greeted, as pleasantly as possible. It was difficult. Westerosi ladies spent years practicing politeness, but she had spent years resolving differences the Nord way, more often than not with fists or steel.

“Princess.” The reply was cold and the Lady of Winterfell had a look on her face like this was the last thing she wanted to be doing. Freyja couldn’t necessarily blame her- she’d acted like she was still in Skyrim, which was considered crass by Northern standards and appalling from Southron standards. First impressions mattered, and she’d ruined hers.

“I came to apologize,” she stated. No point wasting time. “For my rude behaviour, and in particular for courting your daughter. I understand now that such things are not acceptable, and I was brash and careless.”

The frown did not disappear from Lady Stark’s face. If anything, it deepened. “You acted toward Sansa like a lout deep in his cups. She is dear to my heart and that is difficult to forgive. And you have not apologized for your actions with the bastard, or how you _encouraged_ my other daughter.”

“I will apologize for what I did at dinner,” she replied carefully, forcing back a surge of anger. “I should have brought up my concerns in private, not embarrassed your house in front of everyone. I will not apologize for treating Jon with respect.”

“Of course you won’t,” the lady muttered under her breath, just loud enough for her to hear. “Princess Freyja, do you understand what a bastard is?”

“A child born out of wedlock,” she answered deadpan.

“A child born of lust and lies,” Lady Stark corrected, practically spitting the words. “A stain on their father’s honor, a stain on their mother’s virtue. They are treacherous by nature and can never truly be trusted.”

“Jon seemed fine, if sad,” Freyja countered. She paused to take a deep breath and calm herself. “But I have not known him long.”

She seemed to accept that, at least for the moment. “And will you apologize for Arya?”

“The choice of gift was my mother’s, I had little input,” Freyja evaded. “For whatever it may be worth, many Nord girls receive a similar weapon at her age.” She reached down and drew her own dagger out of its sheath, just a little bit, for emphasis.

“Your mere presence encourages her. Do you understand that?”

“I do. But there is little I can do about it.”

“You could not go about with a sword and armor like some farce of a knight. That would be a start.”

“Would you walk into a southern dinner without a suitable gown?” Freyja asked rhetorically, voice on edge. “As your are a lady, I am a warrior. I would feel equally as naked.”

Lady Stark did not respond, instead snapping, “I will be frank, Princess Freyja. I do not like you. The day you leave the walls of this castle is one I look forward to. I do not like you putting ideas into the heads of my daughters. I do not like the undeserved respect you show Lord Stark’s bastard. I revile the idea of you courting Robb. But for the sake of House Stark, for the sake of this alliance, I am willing to tolerate your presence. So long as you do not step too far over the line again.”

She wasn’t just angry at her, Freyja realized, the woman downright hated her. With some sadness she wondered if that could ever be mended. But she forced a thin smile onto her face. “Very well. I will try to not be so grating, and I will try to be more respectful. We may never like each other, but I suppose we will have to settle for tolerating each other.”

And with that, they had something of an agreement.

* * *

“Relax your bow arm,” Robb guided, gently nudging his charge’s arm up, into the proper position. With a sharp thwack, the arrow zipped away and stuck deep into the middle of the target.

“How’d you get out of your lessons, anyway?” Bran asked, nocking an arrow on his own bow.

“That was my doing,” an accented voice answered. Freyja approached in her usual bold way. She was back in her armor again, but wearing a skirt of grey scales today, Robb noticed. “A misunderstanding on my part.”

Arya snorted, almost laughing out loud.

“I was led to believe Arya had other obligations. Your priestess did not object. I suppose she was afraid of angering myself and, in turn, your father,” Freyja explained. She turned to the girl. “The lesson is over now. Sansa is looking for you.”

“She’s probably just going to complain about how I didn’t go,” Arya argued.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

“She is your sister,” Jon reminded her.

Arya grumbled, but handed over her bow and trudged off to the keep.

“Her marksmanship is far better than her needlework,” the armored princess commented.

“It is quite bad,” Robb agreed. “But she will get better. As good as Sansa someday, I am sure.”

Freyja bit her tongue. She had learned enough to mend a jerkin, but that was about it. That was still more than her own little sister. The first time they’d given Nora a needle, she’d stabbed Taarie in the hand with it.

She didn’t have a chance to reply, anyway, for the ward, Theon, approached.

“What is it, Theon?” Robb asked as he approached. The Greyjoy’s usual smirk was gone, though he had one of his own. “Maja drop a hammer on your foot again?”

He didn’t return the jab, instead stating flatly, “They captured a deserter from the Night’s Watch.”

“That means death, does it not?” Freyja asked quietly.

Theon nodded. “We ride at once. Bran as well.”

Robb didn’t answer, just traded a look with Jon and headed off to the stables. Freyja followed him halfway before he realized she was there and turned around, a puzzled expression on his face.

“What are you doing?” Robb asked. “You need not witness this.”

“If I am to be Lady of Winterfell, I will witness more, will I not?”

He shook his head. “My lady mother never has. There’s no need to churn a lady’s delicate stomach.”

Icily, she snapped, “I think you underestimate my stomach, Lord Robb.”

“I apologize, my princess,” he said, eyes downcast.

“No, that was unfair of me,” Freyja apologized. She hadn’t meant it to be that harsh, not really. Robb was trying to be a proper gentleman, not understanding how offensive it was to a Nord woman to imply she was weak. “If you do not believe it is appropriate, I will stay behind. But you need not fear for me.”

“Very well. Come, then.”

* * *

The ride was short and quiet. Freyja watched Bran closely, concerned. She wasn’t much older when she’d witnessed her first execution, and she knew that children had to grow up fastly here, but he looked uncomfortable. When they dismounted, Jon whispered something to his brother, which seemed to steel him a little.

The block was a log smooth and stained with use set in stones at the top of a small bluff. Lord Stark stood by the block, Theon beside him holding Ice in its scabbard, while the rest of them looked on a few paces away.

“White Walkers. I saw the White Walkers. White Walkers,” the prisoner muttered, over and over, loud enough for them all to hear, as the guardsmen led him to the block. He was in a sorry state, in tattered black robes with his face caked in dirt and terror in his eyes.

But, seemingly, he had enough courage to lock eyes with Lord Stark.

“I know I broke my oath. And I know I’m a deserter,” he said. “I should have gone back to the Wall and warned them. But I saw what I saw. I saw the White Walkers. People need to know. If you can get word to my family, tell them I’m no coward. Tell them I’m sorry.”

Lord Stark answered with a small nod. Then he drew Ice from its offered scabbard, driving its point into the ground. It was a massive sword, coming up to his chin. Freyja wasn’t sure if she’d be able to wield it at all, though her mother would have no trouble.

He proclaimed, “In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die.”

“Don’t look away,” Jon said to his young brother. “Father will know if you do.”

With that, Lord Stark raised the sword and brought it down in a smooth swing, severing the deserter’s head and ending his life in one blow.

Freyja had kept her eyes forward and her face blank. It was never easy watching a man die, justly or otherwise. She glanced over to Bran. He looked a bit pale, but he had not looked away. Jon said something to him and led him away.

“White Walkers?” Freyja asked, walking with Robb toward their horses. “Do you think he really saw them?”

“They’re nothing but a legend. They’ve been gone for thousands of years,” Robb answered nonchalantly. “The man was mad.”

Alduin had been a legend once, too. But Robb was not wrong- madmen facing death spun all kinds of tall tales. Instead, she remarked, “I had heard your father carried out his own executions. I had never asked why.”

“The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die,” Robb recited. “When I was Bran’s age, when I saw a man die for the first time, those were the words he gave me. I take it you don’t have the same custom?”

She shook her head. “No. My mother carried out executions during the war, but after she was crowned, it was the headsman’s duty.”

“And what did you think?”

“I do not agree with many of your ways. I have made that clear.” she answered carefully. “This one… maybe it is better than ours. There is an honor in it.”

* * *

The stag was very much dead and had been for a while. It sat by their bridge, almost straight in their path and impossible to miss. It was a grotesque sight, but she was not shy to blood and gore. She did not enjoy it, but it was unfortunately a reality she had to deal with.

Freyja stepped closer to get a better look. She regretted that almost immediately- the stench was overwhelmingly foul, and she wished she had her helmet on. The creature’s belly was ripped open, its entrails spilling out, and its mouth covered in dried blood. The wounds were rough and jagged- claws, not a blade- and one of the antlers was missing. She opined, “Whatever it was, it was something big.”

“Mountain lion?” Theon suggested.

“There are no mountain lions in these woods,” Ned reminded him. He drew his sword, followed by his sons and guards. She followed suit a moment later, earning an odd look from Jory Cassel.

They kept close together as they searched, but no one spoke. She remembered they did have some big predators in Westeros, though she couldn’t remember exactly which ones. Sabre cats? No. Bears, they had bears. It could have been a bear.

The search did not take long, ending down the hill by the stream. The predator had won the fight, but didn’t live long. It must have been a direwolf, like the wolves she knew but much bigger. Its belly was torn open, blood streaking its white-grey fur, and the missing antler was stuck in its neck. A handful of pups snuggled next to the corpse- their dead mother, she realized.

“Is it safe?” Freyja asked quietly.

Robb nodded, “They’re just pups. Too young to do any harm.”

Sheathing her sword, she rushed forward, pushing past a slightly confused Lord Stark, and picked up one of the pups. As a baby, it looked very much like an ordinary grey wolf. The direwolf pup whined and licked at her gloved finger. “It’s an adorable little thing. It’ll grow into that?”

“Yes,” Jon Snow said from beside her. He picked up another one of the pups and held it out to his young brother. “Do you want to hold it, Bran?”

“There are no direwolves south of the wall,” Robb reminded them.

She stood and held the pup out to him. “There are now.”

“Where will they go?” Bran asked, cradling his pup. “Their mother’s dead.”

“They don’t belong down here,” Jory Cassel said.

Lord Stark sighed. “Better a quick death. They won’t last without their mother.”

Eagerly, Theon jumped forward with his blade out. “Right, give it here.”

Instinctively, she pivoted away, keeping her armored body between him and the pup. It whimpered in her arms and pawed at her chestplate. It was such a cute little creature, and she wanted to protect it, but Lord Stark was right. They were too young to survive in the wild. A blade across the throat or a quick twist of the neck would be a mercy.

“No!” Bran yelled. “Father, please!”

“I’m sorry, Bran.”

“Lord Stark?” John interrupted. “There are five pups. One for each of the Stark children. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. They were meant to have them.”

 _Your house_ , not _our house_. Surely she wasn’t the only one who caught that.

Lord Stark paused, then relented. “You will train them yourselves. You will feed them yourselves. And if they die, you will bury them yourselves.”

“What about you?” Bran asked Jon.

“I’m not a Stark, not truly. Get on.”

Freyja handed the pup in her hands over to Robb, then paused.

“What is it?”

“Shh.” Something was making a sound, something near or in the dead direwolf. She stepped back over, and for the first time noticed something moving under the fur. A snout! She reached down, pushing the direwolf over a bit and freeing the last pup underneath. “A little white wolf.”

“The runt of the litter,” Theon observed with a smirk. “That one’s yours, Snow.”

Fate could be strange sometimes.

* * *

“I thought you were going to rip Theon’s blade out of his hands back there, the way you protected Grey Wind,” Robb said as they strolled along Winterfell’s battlements.

“Grey Wind? Is that what you named him?” Freyja asked.

“It seemed fitting,” he answered. “Jon named his Ghost. Bran named his Summer. Sansa calls hers Lady, of course, and Arya named hers Nymeria, after the warrior queen.”

“What about Rickon? What did he name his direwolf?”

He shook his head. “Shaggydog.”

She laughed. “It does have a charm to it.”

“Lord Arryn is dead,” Robb suddenly told her. “My lord father refuses to show it, but I can tell he is distraught.”

“Jon Arryn, Lord of the Vale and Hand of the King,” she remembered. “He was a friend of your father’s, was he not?”

Robb nodded. “More than that. He was like a father to my father. He was fostered in the Vale as a boy, with King Robert. It’s a time he remembers fondly.”

“I’m sorry,” she consoled, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Did you know him?”

“Not well, but we’d met a few times. He gave us gifts as children, though I cannot for the life of me remember any of them,” he answered, a sad smile on his face. “He was my gooduncle on my mother’s side. Married to Lysa Tully, my aunt.”

“Did they have any children?”

“Only one son, Robert Arryn.” Were they both named for King Robert, she wondered? It wouldn’t surprise her, there were a lot of little Lyra’s running around in Skyrim. “A sickly, delicate boy, I have heard. I hope his father’s death does not hit him too hard.”

“What about you? Are you okay?”

“He was an old man. People die, and his time was coming. We weren’t close.” It sounded as if he was trying to convince himself. “I’m fine.”

She wrapped her arms around him, bringing him into what she hoped was a comforting embrace. Nords dealt with death differently; they were more likely to tell boastful stories about Jon Arryn and get blackout drunk in his honor. This wasn’t what she was used to. Was she too forward. And she was still wearing her armor, which wasn’t the softest thing to hug. Was she botching this whole thing?

Robb released her after a moment. “I’m sorry, that was weak of me. But thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really going to try to get the next chapter out a lot quicker. I'll start it tomorrow and hopefully finish it in a week or two. I'm kind of a slow writer but I have more time write now obviously.


	4. Kings And Queens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it took me five months or something to finally update this. All I can say is that I hate 2020 :(
> 
> Robb is awkward but Robb is like 16, give him a break :) 
> 
> The scene in the yard is based on one that’s in the book but not the show, although I changed some of the lines because I’m using show instead of book ages. It’s also inspired by a certain other fanfic (I won’t say because spoilers but you’ll know it when you see it).

** Robb III **

It was a busy month. The King was coming, and that meant preparations had to be made. In Winterfell and in the North, they were not fancy, but King Robert had richer tastes, and his Lannister wife even more so.

The list of preparations went on and on. Hogs and chickens and turkeys and peafowl. Fruits and vegetables from the glass gardens, except the ones that had to be brought from the reach. Eight barrels of ale, fourscore bottles of wine up from the cellars. Forty candles for Lord Tyrion’s room. New, or at least clean, tapestries brought into the great hall. It kept his parents, especially his lady mother, busy.

He’d spent a lot of it thinking about Freyja- well, really pondering her own thoughts on the woman he might or might not be marrying.

She was not pretty the way Sansa was pretty, or his mother had been in her youth. If anything, she was plain, sticking to subdued tunics when she wasn’t in her armor, and never doing much with her hair- not that there was much she could, as it barely came down to her neck. Usually her clothes concealed her figure, but he’d seen her without sleeves once, and hadn’t missed how muscular her arms were. No, she was no pretty in a southron way- she reminded him of the Mormont women more than anything- but nobody could call her ugly, either.

His father had sternly warned him to look beyond the flesh. Above all Freyja had a confidence, a bluntness, and a strength one did not often associate with highborn ladies. It disgusted some of the castle, endeared her to the rest, and, well, he did like it also. But she was also kind and caring- he did not forget their brief moment after Jon Arryn had died.

She spent time with and tried to bond with all his siblings. Arya adored her, of course, and he caught them practicing together sometimes. That was an interesting trick- his mother didn’t like Arya doing such unladylike things but could not very well shout down the Princess. He knew from Bran that she never snitched on him when he was climbing or pranking, and played with Rickon too. Sansa didn’t like her- would probably never like her, sadly- but they had at least tried to make peace with each other. She was kind to Jon, although they’d dropped any idea of that marriage at some point. Oddly Jon seemed to be friendlier with Lady Katariah these days. He silently hoped something would come of that, Jon was far too dour.

But did he truly love the princess? Robb had no idea.

In any case, there was still a distance between them. More than anything he was the son and heir of a Lord Paramount and she was a Princess from another land.

He was trying, but he didn’t know much about courting ladies. He knew enough not to listen to anything Theon said. Jon was useless, his father not much better, saying something about the gods. Sansa and his mother had pages of ideas, but Freyja was not a southron lady, and trying to show southron chivalry had earned nothing but scowls and terse words.

Arya suggested having another go in the training yard, which might have been the best suggestion. Sadly he’d been too busy and, he was reluctant to admit a little nervous. Their first time had been enjoyable, and he knew Freyja enjoyed it as well, but one does not simply ask a princess to spar.

Freyja did seem to like the blue winter roses he had given her, saying they reminded her of a flower from home. His father had a sad look when he noticed, according to his mother they’d been his sister- Robb’s aunt-‘s favorite flowers.

All were shocked when Lady Katariah tore one of the petals off, ate it, and muttered something about fortifying restoration.

He still had no idea what would happen when the King did arrive. Robb knew that the King was one of his father’s oldest friends, or at least, he had been before they’d had a falling out. And then there was Freyja and her retinue. King Robert had been told of their visitors, but how would he react once he actually saw them?

** Freyja III **

_When in Cyrodiil, do as an Imperial…_

Along with the Starks and the Winterfell denizens, Freyja bowed and bent the knee as the King arrived, her own people following suit. Staring almost at the ground, she got an excellent view of legs and horse hooves as the royal retinue arrived.

“Your grace,” she heard Lord Stark greet. “Winterfell is yours.”

“You’ve got fat,” the King insinutated. There was a tense moment as the King and the Lord stared each other down, before the King began to laugh, Lord Stark following suit, and the two men embraced.

Once Lord Stark stood, the rest of them did as well. It was then that Freyja got her first view of the King of the Seven Kingdoms. She could not say she was impressed.

Lord Stark had described Robert Baratheon as a giant of a man, six and a half feet tall and built of pure muscle. He had described a man who wielded a giant Warhammer like no other, who had won battle after battle and personally bested some of the realm’s best fighters. A powerful warrior and a great leader, like her own mother.

Perhaps the King had once been that man, but no longer.

King Robert was as broad as he was tall, seemingly all fat and no muscle. A scraggly beard didn’t quite hide a double chin. His face was flushed, with exertion or drink she was not sure. In truth, she couldn’t see this man win a battle against a bandit, let alone anyone who know which end of the sword to stick someone with.

Beside her, Katariah audibly snorted.

The King greeted the Stark children first. “Who have we here? You must be Robb. My, you’re a pretty one. Who gave you that dagger, girl? What’s your name?”

“Arya. It was a gift, your grace.”

“A gift from High Queen Lyra of Skyrim,” she heard Sansa add, the unspoken implication that nobody from Winterfell had given it to her.

“Mhmm. Bran, was it? Show us your muscles. You’ll be a soldier.”

Only then did he move down the line and stop in front of her. The man would have been intimidating, once, but now was almost pitiful. Robert was big, easily twice her weight even with her armor and over a head above her, but he was also flushed and breathing hard with exertion, and stank of wine.

She bowed her head, though she did not bend the knee again. “King Robert.”

“So you’re that princess from across the sea that Ned was talking about! Frey-ja, was it?” He mispronounced her name with a hard J. “I wouldn’t have believed it at all, but Ned could never tell a damn lie to save his life. Him and his fucking honor. Ned Stark could tell me dragons had come back and I’d fucking believe it.” He flicked at her breastplate. “That’s real, isn’t it?”

There was no point in trying to hide it. “Yes, your grace. My mother, High Queen Lyra, fights her own battles, and so do I.”

“Ha! Isn’t that something?” The King seemed to approve- given the reactions she’d gotten so far, she hadn’t expected that. But she saw something else, was it sadness?

From behind him, Queen Cersei gave her the disapproving glare she’d expected.

With that, the King turned and went back to Lord Stark. She’d been expecting a longer conversation, but wouldn’t complain. She couldn’t catch all of what Lord Stark and the King said, but she heard them mention the crypts and Cersei complain before the two left.

“I’ve heard you are to be betrothed to Robb Stark,” the Queen said to her with false cordiality. Her voice was friendly but her eyes betrayed her true motivations.

“It is not written in stone, but it is very likely.” It was a half truth at best, but she’s been warned. The royal family would likely want her to marry in, while the fates had other plans.

“A shame,” Cersei tittered.

“Perhaps,” she answered noncommittally. “Robb Stark is a good man, an honorable man.”

“An honorable man, but only the son of a Lord,” the queen pushed.

“Yes.”

“Surely a match of equal rank could be found,” Cersei continued to prod. “You know, the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms is of a marriageable age. Arrangements could be made.”

She shook her head and offered a smile she hoped was apologetic. “It would be considered disrespectful to the Starks, in my culture and yours.”

“It would,” the queen admitted. “It would anger the North. But the North is one kingdom among seven, and the crown rules _all_ the kingdoms of Westeros. There is much we can offer that Lord Stark cannot. Surely a good King like your father would see the value in joining his house to ours.”

Freyja bit back a laugh. Cersei was ill-informed. There was no King of Skyrim- while there had been Kings and Queens that ruled together in the past, her father held no such desires and held no titles of his own. “While I am sure High Queen Lyra would see the value, to go back on such a commitment would be seen as greatly dishonorable to the people of Skyrim.”

The latter was a bit of a lie, as no commitment had been made, but it rolled off her tongue with ease.

A look of surprised flitted across Queen Cersies face for a moment before disappearing. “Do you have siblings, Freyja? A brother, perhaps?”

“I do,” she answered in the affirmative, smiling as she thought of them. “Twins, two years younger than me, but they could not be more different. Nora is a troublemaker, but she has a heart of kindness. If she does not want to be caught, you cannot catch her. If she does not want to be found, you cannot find her. Once we believed her to be stealing from Erikur to feed the street children. My mother was angry, and gave her a lecture from Oblivion, but no one was ever able to prove it, and in any case a proper orphanage was built soon afterward.”

The Queen nodded, feigning interest though Frejya did not miss her momentary scowl. “And the other?”

“Marco is the kindest, gentlest soul you will ever meet. He enjoys his books and his studies.” She left out the part about how he was a prodigy in Restoration, Alteration, and Illusion, but could barely manage Flames on a good day. “His temperament is unusual for a son of Skyrim. He takes after my father to the point where some have questioned his parentage. But there is a quiet intensity to him, a quiet courage, and that is certainly from our mother.”

“I have a daughter, Myrcella. Perhaps arrangements could be made?”

“You would need to bring up the matter with my mother and Marco,” Freyja deflected. She doubted either of them intended on arranging a marriage, especially since Marco was only fourteen, but she would be polite about it. She added, “If you would like to write to her, I could arrange to have letters delivered.”

“Of course,” Queen Cersei said with a fake smile that made the Nord half of Freyja want to punch her in the face.

** Katariah I **

Today, Freyja had chosen to do needlework with the other girls. Her charge was terrible with a needle and thread, and knew it, but it was an opportunity to socialize with the young women of the castle she rarely met, and supposedly Princess Myrcella would be there as well. Unfortunately, the priestess- Mordane or something like that- would also be there. Although they usually avoided each other, it was clear the priestess did not like Freyja very much, and her even less.

Predictably, the priestess ignored Freyja when they showed up, instead casting a glare at Katariah. Both of them stood out, armed and dressed as they were, but Freyja was royalty and she was not.

She crossed her arms and glared right back. The priestess flinched and skittered away. For better or for worse, the Westerosi were terrified of her. Probably terrified of all elves, really.

Princess Myrcella was no exception, though the girl was brave enough to try to hide it. She stood and curtsied, greeting Freyja first. “Princess Freyja.”

“Princess Myrcella.” Freyja returned with a bow. “Freyja is fine. Where I am from, we do not stand so much on titles.”

“Freyja.” She repeated the word- it was probably strange to her foreign tongue as it had been for her. “I am pleased to meet you. I hope we will see more of each other in the coming days. And if you do not insist on titles, than I shall not either.”

“I hope so as well, Myrcella.”

The Westerosi princess turned to her. “Lady Katariah… or would it be Ser Katariah? I understand you are in Princess Freyja’s service.”

“Simply Katariah,” she correctly gently. “I am Princess Freyja’s housecarl, and though I am sworn to protect her with my life, that position does not have the same ceremony as your knights.”

“Oh, like a sworn sword,” Myrcella commented. “If it is not rude of me to ask, Katariah, are there other woman housecarls in Skyrim?”

“Very much so.” Once she had thought that was a stupid question, but in her time in Westeros she had grown used to it. “High Queen Lyra has several, among them Lydia, Iona, and Jordis the Shield-Maiden, though actually Lydia has been released from her service. Irileth, a Dunmer like me, has served Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun for decades.”

With that, the priestess quietly pulled Myrcella away, trying to appear as polite as possible, settling her down on the opposite side of the room and quietly instructing her in the womanly arts. The rest of them- among them Sansa, Arya, skinny Jeyne Poole and little Beth Cassel- took seats and pulled out various bits of cloth and thread. Arya offered some of her supplies to Freyja as they started working.

Katariah took up a position beside the door where she could see the entire room, and leaned against the wall. She kept her hands away from her blades, not that she would need them. She could put a fireball or an ice spike through a threat in a moment’s notice.

In truth she didn’t know her way around a needle and thread in the slightest. Whenever she needed something done, she went to Radiant Raiment. It was expensive, and Endarie was a right cunt, but the work was always superb.

Still, she could tell who was good and who was not by watching their faces and how they moved. Sansa, Beth, and Jeyne chatted easily as they worked, fingers moving smoothly, while Arya constantly frowned, scowled, and cursed under her breath, and Freyja stabbed her needle haphazardly in and out of her borrowed bolt of cloth like a dagger while occasionally chiming in here or there.

It was almost soothing to watch.

“He’s our brother!” Arya suddenly shouted, cutting through the quiet chatter of the room.

The Dunmer knew exactly who she was talking about. Her blood rose, but she kept her face impassive.

The priestess turned to her, frowning. “What are you talking about, children?”

“Our half brother,” Sansa corrected, though with barely contained disdain in her voice. She smiled a fake smile. “Arya and I were remarking on how pleased we were to have the princess with us today.”

Freyja looked up from her sewing. “Thanks.”

The mask from the girl’s face fell for a moment as she hissed something that sounded like _not you_. Katariah found that _very_ amusing.

“Indeed. It is a great honor for us all to have Princess Myrcella among us,” the priestess said, emphasizing the last part.

Oh, how she hated those underhanded snipes. It reminded her too much of the worst of the Altmer side of her family. Maybe it was her time in Skyrim, but she appreciated the raw honesty of the Nord ideal each day.

The priestess rose to her feet and crossed the room. “Arya, why aren’t you at work? Let me see your stitches.”

Arya looked away as she surrendered her work. It did not look good, and it was clear by the pained expression on the girl’s face that she knew it did not look good.

“Arya, Arya, Arya,” the priestess chided. She actually had the cruelty to tut. “This will not do, this will not do at all.”

Beth glanced away. Jeyne actually _smirked_ , the bitch. At least Myrcella had the decency to look sorry for Arya, and Sansa as well.

“Arya’s stitches are not so bad, priestess,” Freyja interceded. She showed her own stitching, a horrible mess of jagged lines. “As you can see, it comes easier to some than others. Surely a crooked stitch is not the end of the world.”

“Arya’s stitches are not her only fault,” the priestess lectured. “She is far behind where her sister was at her age, and where a young lady should be at her age, in all the gentle arts. And the influence of a certain _princess_ who struts around with a sword and fills her head with silly ideas of action and adventure has not helped that. I cannot bar your presence here, but I would ask you politely to leave.”

Katariah tensed and held her breath. She’d spent long enough with Nords to understand their culture well enough. In Skyrim, Freyja would have every right to punch the priestess in the face or draw steel and challenge her to a duel on the spot. And many Nords she knew probably would have.

Instead, Freyja simply nodded. “Very well.”

She dropped her stitching on the floor in front of her, then marched for the door, gently pushing Arya along in front of her.

Of course, the priestess shouted after them. “Arya, come back here! Don’t you take another step! Your lady mother will hear of this. In front of our royal princess too! You’ll shame us all!”

Wordlessly, Katariah followed, pulling the door shut behind them.

“Thank you,” Arya said, hugging Freyja tightly despite her armor.

“It was the least I could do. The septa was very unfair.”

Oh, that was right. A priestess of the Seven was called a _septa_.

“But she’s not wrong,” Arya said glumly. She was on the verge of tears. “Sansa can sew and dance and sing and write poetry and she knows how to dress and she plays the high harp _and_ the bells and she’s got all mother’s beauty too! It’s not fair! Sansa got everything and there wasn’t anything left for me!”

“Arya.” Freyja knelt down to look the younger girl in the eye. “Can Sansa shoot a bow like you? Can she wield a dagger as you can? Can she ride well? Can she duck through crowds, or swing a sword?”

“Well, no, but-”

“Then she did not get _everything_ , did she?” she said with a smirk. “Now, enough of this. Let us go see what the boys are up to.”

** Arya I **

As if by command, Nymeria joined them in Winterfell’s corridors, following the trio as they headed toward the training yard.

They passed Jon on the way down, and despite his protests Katariah practically dragged him along with them. Katariah was odd, and her grey skin and red eyes had scared her at first, but Arya had grown to like her. She was nice to her and nice to Jon- maybe more than nice to him. She wasn’t sure.

When they reached the yard, Robb was there, along with the Prince, and a sizable audience of Winterfell, Lannister, Baratheon, and Windcaller men- well, the latter weren’t all men.

“This is a game for children, Ser Rodrik,” the Prince spat. “I grow tired of swatting at Starks with a play sword.”

“You got more swats than you gave, Joff,” Robb goaded. “Are you afraid?”

“Oh, terrified,” the prince replied, sarcastically.

“Joffrey truly is a piece of shit,” Jon whispered to Arya. She stifled a laugh.

The master-at-arms tugged thoughtfully on his mustache. “What are you suggesting?”

Joffrey stated firmly, “Live steel.”

“Done,” Robb agreed in the same tone. “You’ll be sorry!”

Rodrik put his hand on Robb’s shoulder, shaking his head. “Live steel is too dangerous. I will permit tourney swords, with blunted edges.”

“This is your prince,” a tall knight with horrible burn scars on his face growled at them, stepping forward. The Hound, she remembered someone calling him. “Who are you to tell him he may not have an edge on his sword, _ser_?”

Ser Rodrik matched the knight’s stare and replied firmly, “Master-at-arms of Winterfell, Clegane, and you would do well not to forget it?”

“Are you training women here?” the burned man asked with a snort.

“I’m standing right here!” Freyja objected, glaring at them.

“You!” Joffrey whirled on her, pointing a finger. He had an evil looking smirk on his face. “You like pretending to be a knight, _princess_. How about you and I go a round, see what it’s like to be in a real fight.”

There were many gasps from around the yard, probably for different reasons, she figured. The King’s men were probably shocked their prince would challenge a lady to fight, because _ladies can’t fight_ , while the Winterfell men and people from Skyrim knew the princess was better than Joffrey and had spilled real blood before.

Princess Freyja stood tall and grasped her sword. She spoke quietly, “Do you challenge me, Joffrey son of Robert?”

“What? Yes! Of course I challenge you!” the prince snapped at her. “Are you deaf?”

Freyja drew her blade in one smooth motion. It was an arming sword with a slight curve, jagged edges, and made of black metal with red accents that seemed to glow. She flipped it, then slammed the point into the ground. “I, Freyja daughter of Lyra, accept your challenge.”

Ser Rodrik was about to object, but Katariah cut him off. “It is a matter of honor now. Do not interfere.”

Arya found it amusing that Ser Rodrik was more afraid of the Dunmer woman than the giant burned knight. So, too, did the Hound- what looked almost like a smirk flashed across his face before disappearing back to a frown.

They stood and waited, tense and awkward as Prince Joffrey’s squires outfitted him in armor, a set of full plate enameled red and decorated with inlays of the Baratheon stag and Lannister lion. Arya thought it was overdone, and Freyja’s black and grey set was much nicer looking. But maybe that was just because it was a woman’s armor, and Arya could close her eyes and imagine herself wearing it.

Freyja was already wearing her armor. She did change her bracers from the grey ones to the black ones, and donned her helmet.

“If you wish, I shall use one of your swords,” the princess offered. “A Daedric blade would be an unfair advantage against anything short of Valyrian steel, I think.”

“You may use your fancy sword if you wish,” Prince Joffrey replied dismissively. “I’ve been trained by the kingdom’s best from a young age. I’m not afraid of some lampblack and a trick of the light.”

“Very well.”

“In Skyrim, this duel would be to yield or death,” Katariah announced. She glanced at Ser Rodrik, who frowned. “However, in deference to local customs and the rules of combat within Winterfell, the duel will instead be to yield or first blood.”

“I’m going to make you scream,” Prince Joffrey taunted.

Freyja said nothing, instead shutting her visor and drawing her sword into a ready position.

“Begin!”

The match started boring, with both of the combatants circling each other, swords at the ready. Joffrey moved slower, clearly not used to the weight of his armor, while Freyja moved quickly. Her armor was lighter, and she wore it all the time. Besides, Freyja might be a girl, but she was a year or two older than Joffrey (Arya still wasn’t sure how Imperial dates worked) and stronger than she looked.

The prince moved first, charging forward at Freyja. She sidestepped the strike and launched a probing attack of her own, which he blocked with his shield.

The king’s men cheered for their prince, of course, and the Windcaller party for their princess. Some of the Winterfell men stayed silent, but a lot of them were cheering for Freyja.

“I don’t blame them for liking the princess more than the prince,” Jon said quietly.

Joffrey struck again, and it looked like he would get the hit in but Freyja pivoted away at the last minute. She jabbed at him, but once again he raised his shield and blocked it. The two circled again for a moment, looking for an opening. Freyja swung her sword in a wide arc and for a third time the prince’s shield came up and blocked it with a loud clang. He tried to jab at her, but Freyja dodged the blow and swung, landing a glancing blow on Joffrey’s pauldron.

It didn’t count for anything, but seemed to enrage Joffrey. His attacks came quicker and more vicious, although some of them were awkward. Every time, Freyja ducked, leaned, or turned out of the way, or blocked the blow with her sword or bracers. She occasionally threw in her own attacks, but never managed to get more than a glancing hit on her opponent.

It was exciting, but…

“She’s holding back,” Arya realized.

Her brother nodded. “Aye. Giving the crowd a show.”

After blocking a slash with his shield, Joffrey suddenly kicked his opponent in the shin. The crowd gasped at she dropped to one knee, seemingly vulnerable. Joffrey brought his sword down in a brutal chop at his opponent’s neck, only for it to slam into the dirt as Freyja rolled out of the way. With a speed she hadn’t shown before, she slashed across the prince’s exposed back, eliciting a scream as the Daedric blade cleaved through the prince’s armor and the flesh underneath.

Half the gathered crowd erupted in cheers, while the other half swore, groaned, and many of them left.

“I’ll kill you for this, you bitch,” Prince Joffrey spat through gritted teeth as his squire helped him to his feet.

Arya did not miss the amused look that passed between the Princess and her housecarl, nor the smile that almost passed the Hound’s lips.

**Eddard II**

Robert Baratheon had always had an acidic personality. Once, he had considered him to be good and kind at his core, just… brash and uncaring of his words. That had ended years ago, and now he could only see the cruelty in his once friend as it was.

Tonight, King Robert sat at the high table and mocked his own son, who was currently in bed under the care of Maester Luwin.

“And Joffrey was supposed to have trained under the best the Seven Kingdoms had, and he’s a strong young lad and not a girl.” He slammed his tankard on the table, splashing beer onto the wood, and laughed bitingly. “Oh, who am I fucking kidding?”

“Husband-”

“Our son’s fucking soft, that’s what he is. Always playing with that damned crossbow and his dainty little swords like his pretty boy uncle,” he continued to ramble, pausing to tear apart a chicken thigh with his bare hands. “I should have given him a warhammer, now that’s a man’s weapon! He could’ve smashed her ribs in like I did to Rhaegar at the Ruby Ford.”

“I do not believe it would be wise to murder the future High Queen of Skyrim, your grace,” Ned deadpanned, focusing intently on his meal. That had been a fair fight, at least, but the Rebellion had been bad business all around.

“Well, you’re right, Ned,” the King agreed. “That girl could probably swing a warhammer better than Joffrey ever could.”

“If it is the same to you, King Robert, I prefer my blades,” Freyja interjected from her seat on the opposite side of the table.

“I mean, look at the muscles on her! I don’t know what the fuck they do in Skyland but they put out girls who are more warriors than my puny boy,” Robert ranted. “I swear to the Seven, Ned, he got all the Lannister, none of the Baratheon. Joffrey’s thin as a godsdamned stick. Tall but got no strength to him. Even my brother Renly was tougher at his age, and half of Storm’s End has him figured for a buggerer and I almost believe it myself.”

“That _princess_ is an ugly brute of a girl who thinks it acceptable to wear a riding outfit to a royal dinner,” Cersei spat under her breath, raking her eyes up and down the Princess’s padded tunic and trousers.

“Actually, this is considered fine clothing in Skyrim,” Freyja chirped, seemingly unperturbed. “I wear it at court, when I am not wearing my armor, that is.”

The Queen shot her a disdainfull look. “ _Really_.”

“My Queen, I ask that you do not insult our guests,” Eddard attempted to smooth over. “Their ways are strange, yes, and I do not understand many of them myself, but they are not without reason. And I am sure you are aware of the importance of this alliance to the North and the Seven Kingdoms.”

“So be it,” the queen said disdainfully. There was something else in Cesei’s voice. Was it jealousy? No, that was an absurd thought. Cersei was Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and one of the most beautiful women in the realm. Princess Freyja was many things, but not a queen, and not a particularly fair maiden.

Freyja was likely to marry Robb, but Sansa was all but betrothed to Joffrey, so that couldn’t be it. Perhaps it had something to do with the unhappy marriage Cersei and Robert were rumoured to have.

“If I may, your grace,” the elf woman- Katariah- said from Freyja’s right. “Your son fought well. Princess Freyja is the daughter of High Queen Lyra, a legendary warrior in her own right, trained by Skyrim’s best and a year Prince Joffrey’s senior. There is no shame here.”

“Grey skinned people, girls with longswords and tales of fucking dragons,” Robert mused. He turned to Ned, an amused and drunk expression on his face. “Are you sure this Sky Rim exists, Ned? Sometimes I think you just hired a mummer’s troupe to make my visit more entertaining. Ha!” He raised his goblet in a toast. “To Skyrim and the Seven Kingdoms!”


End file.
